


Iorveth's Path (working title)

by Ercasse



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-05-20 03:16:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14886609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ercasse/pseuds/Ercasse
Summary: Letho returns from his second, successful king-slaying. The presence of another vatt'ghern at the scene of the crime sets in motion a chain of events that Iorveth could never have predicted. (WIP)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work in progress. I'll update the tags as necessary - though I've included ones I think are going to become relevant.

Iorveth watched as the skiff was slowly revealed in the morning fog. One of the younger recruits looked eagerly at him and he shook his head sharply. Assumptions got you killed. The _Scoia’tael_ commander counted six passengers, his one good eye watchful for signs they’d been compromised.

When the two males at the front of the boat leapt free and began to guide it onto the bank, Iorveth signaled and stepped out into the open.

His eye fell on the largest male of the group – and the only non-elf. Letho’s bulky frame looked incongruous wrapped in his monk’s disguise. As if sensing the scrutiny, golden slit-pupil eyes returned his stare.

“Another crown falls from the head of a king.” The _vatt’ghern_ drawled.

“Do you have proof?” Iorveth asked.

“Nah. I ran into an old friend. He nearly spoiled it for me.”

“Someone witnessed you? Did you silence him?”

“No time. With any luck they’ll blame him for Foltest’s death and we’ll be free to continue with our little plan.”

“And if they believe his account, you will get nowhere near a king again. The Temerian Special Forces will dog your steps. You’re not exactly inconspicuous.” Iorveth gestured at him.

“Something tells me that won’t be an issue. Geralt looked me straight in the eye without recognition. Maybe he’s succumbing to the madness known to our kind.”

“Your friend is a _vatt’ghern_ also?” Iorveth asked sharply.

“School of the Mutt. Looked like he was trying to protect Foltest. Maybe the king hired him as a bodyguard after hearing about my handiwork with Demavend.”

“Anything else I should know?”

Letho shrugged. “Ask your tree rats if you want a full account. I’ve some other business to take care of.”

Iorveth clenched his jaw against several threats that came to mind. He willed himself to ignore the jibe. Letho was a means to an end.

“I presume we’ll find you in your usual spot then?”

The bald man nodded. “See you round, Squirrel.”

The small group of elves watched him go.

His second in command, Ele’yas, caught his eye and signed discretely. _Follow him?_

_Not you._ Iorveth signed back, knowing Letho’s enhanced hearing would still catch any actual conversation. He pointed at two of the scouts. _Tail the vatt’ghern. Watch. Wait. Remain unseen._

They nodded and slipped away. Iorveth waited another few minutes for good measure before he swung into action.

“Ciaran, Ele’yas - with me.”

“You two. Scuttle that boat and remove all traces from the shore. You – go and tell Ninael and Lúthon to report to the lookout immediately. I will brief the camp on my return. Dismissed.”

“Yes Commander.” They chimed, before sprinting off.

Iorveth, Ciaran and Ele’yas set off for the cliffs, not bothering to exchange words along the way. The cliffs extended along the coast for a number of miles, finally tapering off near the _dh’oine_ city of Flotsam. The section they’d chosen as a lookout lay somewhere near the middle of the rocky formation. Iorveth liked that it was well away from the camp – and that no one could come close enough to listen without being seen.

They arrived first and Ciaran began pacing the area impatiently. Ele’yas just lounged on a nearby rock and watched his companion.

“You fidget like an elfling.” The slender male commented.

“And you nitpick like an old mother.” Ciaran didn’t miss a beat.

Iorveth pinched the bridge of his nose, ready to interrupt an all too common verbal sparring session between his two seconds. He was spared however, as they spotted two blond figures – a male and a female – winding their way up the path to join them.

“Excellent. We can finally begin.” Ciaran stated.

Iorveth raised a brow at him and he looked slightly abashed.

“Ele’yas.” He turned to the _Scoia’tael_ captain. “Let’s start with your account.”

“I’ve nothing unusual to report about the mission.” Ele’yas shrugged elegantly. “We dropped the _vatt’ghern_ off without incident and laid low until mid-morning of the Sabbath. We waited for Letho in range of the tower until he dove out the window. We fished him out of the water and started rowing east. Moments later the alarm was sounded – it looked like the entire garrison came pouring out of the walls. Panicked shouting could be heard from the shore. None looked to the harbour and we weren’t pursued.”

“I can’t imagine anyone that big coming out of a dive like that unscathed.” Ciaran commented idly.

“Maybe the mutagens do something to their bones? He seemed wholly uninjured.” Ele’yas replied.

“And you’re certain none saw you leaving?” Iorveth asked.

“No one looked in our direction. Though if Letho’s story is true there would have been one witness in the tower.”

Iorveth briefly explained for the benefit of the newcomers.

“If they believe him, it will lead them straight to us.” Lúthon spoke up. “Your obsession with taunting the Blue Stripes commander will be our undoing. Those masks were inadvisable from the start, Iorveth.”

“So they find out we were involved. So what?” Ciaran glared at the blond. “Don’t tell me it doesn’t fuck with their minds to see us wearing the colours of their special forces.”

Iorveth sighed. He’d considered it a brilliant move when he’d thought of it some months ago – an effective intimidation tactic.  “Lúthon is right. Our objective has changed. We no longer want to advertise our movements. Order your units to burn their masks.”

Ele’yas nodded easily. Ciaran looked like he wanted to protest, but Iorveth held his gaze until his second finally nodded once, swallowing.

“Lúthon. I need to know what’s been said about Foltest’s death. Have they blamed or believed that _vatt’ghern_ Geralt? What was he doing there? I want a background on him. Also – find out who’s assumed control of Temeria.”

“Publically or in truth?”

“Both.”

 “It will be done.” The spymaster replied.

Iorveth turned to regard the lone she-elf of their group. “Ninael?”

She shook her head. “No news from Aedirn yet. I’m expecting a report in the next handful of days. But we might have a situation in Flotsam.”

“Laredo?”

She snorted. “Who else? But I don’t think anyone was anticipating this. The man couldn’t come up with something like this on his own.”

Iorveth was unsurprised when Lúthon nodded his agreement. He operated under the assumption the pair kept nothing from one another. And that it was unlikely he’d ever be the first to be informed.  As a leader – it had clawed at his nerves. So much so, he’d initially taken to separating them at every occasion. He’d seen their relationship as a liability.

They’d finally given him an ultimatum. He could either accept the way they wished to operate, or find new spymasters. And then they’d showed him their _vérë_ – an identical constellation of filigreed stars spanning the shoulder blades on both their bodies. They were _bonded._ Not just lovers. Lúthon had looked at Iorveth’s own vines pointedly. _You of all people should understand._ He’d said.

Iorveth had been ashamed. A torrent of rage, jealousy and despair had threatened to choke him in that moment. But thankfully he’d swallowed the familiar bitterness and hadn’t poisoned their interaction any further. _This? It’s a dh’oine tattoo, nothing more._  He’d denied it but neither had believed him. _I stopped looking for my mate long ago._ He’d offered quietly. _As a leader, I accept your proposal. As a male – I ask your forgiveness._

The memory had lasted a heartbeat.

“Rumour has it that Loredo plans to cede the city to Kaedwen. Or at least give them the use of his port. For a good price, of course.” Ninael said.

“How far has this rumour spread?”

“Only a few of the town’s officials are talking about it.”

“Let me guess, the one’s in Laredo’s back pockets.”

“Yes. They are being surprisingly tight-lipped about it. It coincides with a new arrival to the city. The man claims he’s a lord of some backwater duchy who’s interested in following trade routes. His Temerian accent is woeful.”   

“I’m going to need this verified as soon as possible.”

Ele’yas looked troubled. “If it’s true, this forest is soon going to be crawling with soldiers - Temerian and Kaedweni.”

“If it’s true, we could use this to our advantage. Deal Henselt a blow for our friends in Aedirn.” Ciaran chimed in.

“I know your unit’s good, Ciaran. But I don’t think we can afford to be stuck in between a Temerian – Kaedweni conflict.” Lúthon murmured.

“Sounds like the _Socia’tael_ are going to be at war with Kaedwen soon enough anyway – if we support your crazy dragonslayer.” Ciaran aimed at Iorveth.

“The sale of Flotsam is just speculation at this point. Let’s waste no more time on it until Ninael can confirm or deny the rumours. Either way, it looks like our time in this region is coming to a close. We should start preparing.” Iorveth said.

“And the viper _vatt’ghnerne?”_ Ele’yas wondered.

“We watch them, of course. Our interests currently align – but that could end at any point.”

Lúthon frowned. “I don’t trust them. Witchers kill monsters – not kings. They take no coin, they seek no glory. I want to know their motive.”

“Don’t we all?” Iorveth muttered. “It’s all I can do to stop myself from going for Letho’s throat – every time I’m near the man.”

“A more unlikeable ally I’ve never met.” Ele’yas agreed.

“I don’t think he cares much for you either.” Ciaran remarked.

“Oh?”

“He’s made a few comments in my hearing. About your leadership. So I made myself scarce. It was either that or punch him in the face.”

Iorveth snorted.

Lúthon looked intrigued. “Ciaran, were you meant to hear these remarks?”

“I guess so, yes.”

“Agree with them.” Lúthon suddenly demanded.

Three pairs of eyes stared at the blond male in bafflement.

“You want me to badmouth my leader to a _vatt’ghern_?” Ciaran repeated slowly.

“Exactly.” Lúthon leaned forward. “I think I know how we can get Letho to play his hand….”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note that some of the dialogue has been taken from Witcher 2 cutscenes.   
> Future dialogue will not always be canon-compliant.

 “Iorveth! Roche is in the woods!” a scout came bursting into the camp. The news was like a stick to an anthill.

“Where? How many?” Iorveth demanded.

“They’ve just come ashore at the abandoned trade route. He’s with two others – a flame-haired woman and that _vatt’ghern_ Letho spoke of.”

Iorveth stilled. “Did you just say _three_ dh’oinne?” he asked incredulously.

“Yes Sir.”

“And no reports of any other _dh'oinne_ in the forest.” Iorveth commented to no one in particular. Then he laughed. “The Blue Stripes commander must have a death wish.”

Anticipation coiled in his gut, his stale mood lifted.

“Camp to stand down!” he ordered. “Standard precautions. Ciaran’s unit archers report to the clearing. Five minutes.”

The last order sent warriors hurtling for their gear and shouting for their comrades.

Iorveth strode into the cave network and made for his bedroll. He retrieved his bow and quiver, his sword already strapped to his hip. Once out in the open he slung them easily over his shoulder. Minutes later Ciaran and his unit were assembled on the edge of their camp.

Iorveth turned to address his warriors. “If they are only three, they are either incredibly stupid, desperate or feel they are skilled enough to survive a trip through the woods. Close combat is out. You will not engage with swords. We head for the old trade route, where the fallen tree crosses the trail. I want archers on either side and stationed in groups of three along the path to Flotsam. Move out.”

They ran lightly through the trees, in no particular formation. Ahead of him Ciaran set an even pace for his unit, ensuring they would not arrive winded from over exertion. As it was, the timing would be close…

 

**

 

When they neared the location, elves began to peel off in groups of three, melting into the undergrowth silently until only a handful remained with the commander and his second.

They stood on the left bank of a small gully. Nearby a large tree had fallen over the trail - creating a natural bridge between the banks. Below them a human-made path wound its way through the gully towards Flotsam, though the forest had started to reclaim the disused trail. Here and there evidence of its time as a trade route was still visible. A broken crate, a few scraps of hessian sackcloth. Anything valuable was long gone.

It was the perfect place for an ambush. And the most direct route by land to the human town unless Roche wanted to risk dragging his companions through the thick of the forest. Iorveth was confident he’d beaten them to this spot. But by how long?

Iorveth snapped his fingers to get the group’s attention.

_Fastest?_

The group exchanged glances, then an elf signaled to himself.

 _Scout ahead. Locate and report back._ Iorveth signed.

 _Understood._ The archer started tracing his way along the gully until he was out of sight.

The rest of the group settled down. It was not a long wait.

 _Ten minutes._ The scout reported.

_On my order._

Everyone nodded. Then Ciaran thrust something at him, smirking. It was a flute.

Iorveth stared at his officer as if he’d taken leave of his senses.

 _Your word, commander_. He signed with his free hand. Everyone watched the exchange with interest.

His word? What - ? Iorveth swore inwardly as Ciaran’s meaning sunk in. He remembered the ridiculous oath he’d made in front of his warriors one evening. Spirits had flowed and he’d overindulged against his better judgement. Soldiers had taken turns entertaining the group, with songs, jokes, stories and sleight of hand.

When it was Iorveth’s turn, Ciaran had handed him a flute. _I’ve heard it said you can charm the birds from the trees._ He’d commented. Iorveth had grimaced. _The day I pick up a flute again is the day Roche wanders into the forest without his men._ He’d replied. Ciaran had looked at him challengingly. _Do you swear it?_ Iorveth had rolled his eyes. Unfortunately for them, Roche wasn’t an idiot. He saw no danger in agreeing. _Fine. I swear it._ Iorveth had gone on to tell a story from his childhood village.

Iorveth sighed audibly, before snatching the proffered instrument. After a second’s thought, he moved away from the group until he stood on the fallen log over the centre of the trail. He saluted Ciaran mockingly and brought the flute to his lips.

The notes flowed easily, his fingers remembering the order and placement without effort. The tune was old, a ballad of love and loss. It was the first thing that had come to mind. The song rang out into the forest, and he knew the _dh’oinne_ would easily make it out. The _vatt’ghern_ probably already had.

It suited him that Roche would think Iorveth was baiting him.

Moments later his sharp ears picked out the sound of boots crunching on the dry soil. He let the song fade as his prey rounded the final corner and stepped into view.

The two men moved instinctively in front of their female companion, but not before Iorveth noticed the broach on her cloak. Iorveth cursed inwardly. Triss Merigold then - a powerful sorceress. And the _bleidd vatt’ghern’s_ lover.

His eye slid to the hooded figure. Most of his features were obstructed from view, though the elf could make out the telltale golden eyes and a long scar which ran diagonally through his left eye. The blow had somehow managed to miss claiming his vision.

If Letho reminded Iorveth of a well-fed snake basking in the sun - languid but ready to strike - then this one reminded him of a wolf – lean and cautious - who’d weathered some hard winters.

Which left…

“Vernon Roche." he drawled. "Commander of the Temerian special forces. Twice decorated on the field of battle” Iorveth clapped mockingly “Instrumental in subduing the Mahakam foothills.”

 “Iorveth, regular son of a whore” Roche returned with venom.

The _Scoia’tael_ leader sneered at the lack of creativity. Maybe Roche only had imagination when it came to the battlefield? It was clear he riled easily, and Iorveth decided to bait the man further.

“I’m delighted you’re here.” He assured the Temerian. “I’ve made plans, set traps and yet you enter my woods of your own volition!”

Iorveth was thrilled to see the man puff up in indignation.

“You aided the man who killed my king!” Roche snarled.

“King or beggar, what’s the difference? One dh’oine less.” 

The vatt’ghern cut in. “Where’s your unit? Dispersed by a raiding party?”

“They’re exactly where they should be.”

“Since when do the Scoia’tael hire professional killers to do their dirty work? A dh’oine even. You’ve fallen low.” Geralt accused him.

His words confirmed Letho’s theory. The man truly hadn’t recognized his fellow kin.

“A hired killer, true. But in all certainty, he is no dh’oine.” 

“You’re just using race as an excuse to fight.”

Iorveth lost his temper. “Race is the very reason we _are_ at war! Four hundred years of killing…all over the shape of the ear and your race’s inability to abide that which is different!”

The _vatt’ghern_ remained impassive. “The King slayer’s among your party. We’ve come for him.”

 “I’m afraid he’s a guest of ours. We’ll not be handing him over.”

Roche suddenly launched a dagger at him.

“- Enough of this piss! Die!”

“- _Spar’le_!”

“- Triss – now!”

All hell broke loose.

Iorveth danced out of harm’s way as the twang of strings sounded. Then there was a blinding flash and the trio below were bathed in an orange ball of light. When the arrows reached the sphere, they disintegrated with a hiss, turning into…were those butterflies?

Another volley of arrows met with the same fate, and Iorveth held up an arm. The archers by him lowered their bows. There was no point in wasting arrows.

Both parties stared at one another for a moment – at an impasse.  

Then the woman swooned and the _vatt’ghern_ dropped his sword to catch her. Iorveth and his warriors watched intently, waiting for signs that the barrier might be weakening.

The woman murmured something too low for Iorveth to hear. Still conscious, then.

The _Scoia’tael_ leader picked up a stone and hurled it at the barrier. As it crumbled, both men whirled to face the group of elves.

“Come on, while the barrier’s still holding!” Roche barked at Geralt. Wasting no time, he hoisted the sorceress over his shoulder like a sack of grain and began to follow the trail. The _vatt’ghern_ picked up his sword and brought up the rear – eyeing Iorveth and his archers warily as he moved.

They were going to attempt to reach Flotsam.

Iorveth signaled and they began to shadow the trio’s footsteps.

Ahead of him, Iorveth heard his name shouted once – like a war cry – and he arrived just in time to see a young elf leap from his vantage point and rush the Witcher, blade drawn.

“No!” he yelled. But it was too late.

The _Scoia’tael_ slipped through the barrier easily and the Witcher met him, steel sword ready. To Iorveth’s great surprise, the Witcher ended the fight by bringing the pommel of his sword down on the young elf’s head, then slowing his fall to the ground.

“Did he just –“ Ciaran began.

“–  Go check him.” Iorveth motioned at one of Ciaran’s unit, not slowing.

They continued to chase the group through the trees. Occasionally one of them would pelt a rock or bit of branch at the _dh’oinne,_ testing the barrier. But it held firm. No one else engaged the swordsman.

Iorveth cursed at the forest began to thin out. They were going to get away. At that moment, the town’s sentry bell rang out – a physical death knell to Iorveth’s plans.

He signaled for his men to halt.

“Back to camp.” He ordered, and the unit began to disperse immediately.

To no great surprise, Letho suddenly appeared at his side. Iorveth wondered if he’d witnessed the whole exchange. His timing was too coincidental. Why hadn’t it suited him to get involved? He’d obviously had no problem letting his kin take the fall for Foltest’s murder?

Iorveth wondered – not for the first time – whether it had been a good idea to align with the unpredictable warrior.

“Fear not, elf. I know Geralt. I know his weakness.” The man drawled.

As if the man could hear their conversation, he turned around and fixed them with his unusual yellow gaze, before finally turning to follow his companions into the fortified town of Flotsam.


End file.
